“Sure,” Red said. “CC,” he said to the bartender. “Straight up.”
“Everyone live there?”
“Yeah, all of us.” He popped the shot and washed it with a swallow of beer. Hawk gestured at the bartender to bring another.
“Us guys, the workers, security people. Nice facility.”
“How ‘bout the bosses,” Hawk said.
“Sure, them too. Got an executive house. Fucking mansion.” Red drank half of his second Canadian Club. “Nice lawn, right on the river. Can’t see it from the road, it’s in the trees.”
“Outside the complex?”
“Un uh. Everything’s inside the complex, except the training range.”
We had another round of beers. Red turned and leaned his elbows on the bar and surveyed the room.
“Thing about this job is you’re stuck out here in the fucking sticks, you know,” he said. “Pussy is scarcer than balls on a heifer.”
“No broads at the complex?” I said.
“Couple old ugly fat-assed secretaries,” Red said. “Some executive quiff over at the mansion. But nothing for the blue-collar stiffs like you and me, you know.”
“No wives?”
“Naw, they don’t hire married guys.”
“Except the executives.”
Red finished his Canadian Club. Hawk got him another.
“Not even them. Except for the kid.”
Red drank a little of the Canadian Club, sipping it carefully as if it were a fine cognac.
“There a kid there?” Hawk said.
Red laughed. “Naw, the kid. Guy owns the whole Transpan thing is a guy named Costigan. I never seen him but his kid comes around once in a while, like to inspect, you know. Kid’s about thirty, thirty-five. Comes in like the regimental commander-you guys been in the service?” We both nodded. “Kid comes in, lives at the mansion, comes around watches us train, shit like that. Sometimes he brings a broad.” Red grinned. “Usually ain’t the same one.”
“Must be a pain in the ass,” I said, “having him around.”
“Naw, not really. Most of the time him and the broad are just at the mansion. They got a pool over there and a game room, place is like a fucking resort, you know. Shit, they been here about two weeks, now. We ain’t seen him for ten minutes.”
“Big bucks, huh?”
“Biggest. You ever hear of the old man? Jerry Costigan? He’s worth more than Saudi Arabia, for crissake. Kid goes everywhere with about eight bodyguards.” Red continued to survey the room. “Damn,” he said, “sure would be nice to see a little pussy.”
“How long you been here,” I said.
“Eight months. If it wasn’t for that skinny waitress we’d all be dating Mary Palm and her five daughters. Like fucking a bundle of kindling, but it’s better than nothing.”
The blond waitress in question hurried intently past us carrying a plate of gray pork chops toward a table in tke front.
“Queen of the Transpan Forces,” Red said. “Any of us get the clap, we all get the clap.” He laughed and drank the rest of his whiskey. “Just pass it back and forth through Doreen.”
We got another round.
“Where’d you work before?” Hawk said.
“Angola, Zambia. Put in some time in Rhodesia.”
“The old country,” Hawk murmured.
“Construction?” I said.
“Shit, no, man. Soldiering.”
“Mercenary?” Hawk said.
Red drank some whiskey. “Bet your ass, mercenary. Soldier of fucking Fortune, Jim. All of us are.”
“Done a little of that,” Hawk said.
“Yeah? Where’d you soldier?”
“Did a little Foreign Legion,” Hawk said.
“No shit? The Frenchies?” Red laughed with pleasure. “C’est la fucking guerre, monsieur. Huh?” He put his hand out palm up and Hawk slapped it.
“Oui,” Hawk said.
“You in Indochina?” Red said.
